The Abolition of Man
by Rogue Hellsing
Summary: When a man with no memories washes up on the banks of a small town reservoir, covered in wounds and on the brink of death, the town folk expect him to leave soon. Surprisingly, he stays and fits in rather well. At least, until disappearances and strange happenings in the area bring two not-so-official FBI agents into town to investigate. And it's all downhill from there.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **Hey! I guess this is my first venture into the Supernatural fic realm, so I beg you, don't crucify me (yet) for this first chapter! It gets better, I swear it. This fic is canon divergent from episode 7x02, Hello, Cruel World. It's going to be very heavily Cas-centric and for a long while, mostly a character study of how he reacts with no memories in a foreign place, with people who don't know him whatsoever. If you've read my other fics, you know the first few chapters are usually quite introspective, then the action picks up from there. And, yeah, it will eventually end up being Destiel. What can I say, I'm a total sucker for Dean/Cas. But, it's going to be soul-crushingly slow building. Essentially, as soul-crushing as the show has been. The plot will be canon-esque, some of the situations and dialogue will be similar, but the events and the plot itself is quite different from what happens. For once, after a lot of angst, everyone gets a happy ending! So! Sorry for bothering you with this long synopsis, enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **Don't own! Never have, never will~

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The Master said, He who sets to work on a different strand destroys the whole fabric.

-Confucius, Analects II.16

* * *

The light burned. The light hurt. It was painful, it was bad. The light wasn't bad, the light was right, good, correct, but…

How the light burned across a vast expanse of blue, and cold.

So very cold. Cold that hissed, cold that whispered painful truths. Cold that came from within to hurt him and tear him apart. Cold that hurt and hurt and…

Darkness.

He is falling. Falling into a void of darkness.

It is endless.

Falling, falling, falling…

Somewhere in the darkness, there is a voice. A voice known so well.

It calls out a name.

Over and over… closer.

The voice is a man. A man who does not have a name. A man with jackets, and hair, and eyes like grass, eyes like stars. Eyes of green that call a name, that name, that name that feels so recognizable.

_Cas, Cas Cas Cas…_

And he wants to reach for the man. Really, he does. The man is so bright, so warm, but he's fading. Fading into the darkness, fading away to where he cannot reach and he's going and…and…

Falling, falling, falling…

The light that hurts came again, with the sounds of something, some_one_ with noise spilling, spewing, like a geyser, fountain, volcano, spilling, spewing.

_"Son? Can you hear me? I don't know what in the hell you're doing out here this late at night, but you've trespassed. I'm going to have to take you in to the station. Son? Can you hear me?"_

Hearing, verb. To hear. To receive audio. Auditory. Latin: Audire, to hear…

_"Hang in there, I can't see you, with all this mud all over you- are you even wearing any clothes? If you've brought high end drugs into this town, I am going to prosecute the shit out of you, boy. Stay still while I cuff you."_

Falling, falling, falling…

Sight. Vision flooded back.

It was dark. So very dark. Dark columns rose, a gothic cathedral in the darkness, and dark, dark, dark.

Gothic architecture. Originating in twelfth century France, spreading and lasting until the late sixteenth century.

The cathedral lurched and the ground spun in circles, dancing, laughing, taunting him. Why were they laughing? The ground was so close, now, closer, closer, back away again, warmth around his back, holding him.

_"Steady there, son. I'm thinking you might have just had too much to drink. We'll get you breathalyzed in a minute, as soon as we get back to the patrol car. Bad day at work, was it?"_

Patrol car, police car. The first police car was a wagon run by electricity in 1899, in Akron, Ohio. New York City Police Department employed a fleet of Radio Motor Patrol vehicles in 1920 and the practice spread from there.

Cars, radios, sirens.

Lights, lights, lights.

Falling, falling, falling….

_"Just hang tight, kid. Once we get to the jail, we'll take a look at you, see if you bumped your head or anything like that. It's too damn dark out here to see anything." _

Brain trauma occurs when an external force traumatically injures the brain. Traumatic brain injury is a major cause of death and disability worldwide, predominately in children and young adults.

Males sustain traumatic brain injuries more frequently than females do. Causes include falls, vehicle accidents, and violence.

Movement, the ground was moving, not rushing, not roaring, just trundling along, and the warmth was around him, holding, pushing him, and they were moving, moving, drifting, then the ground stopped rushing, and the trees stopped chattering, and all fell silent.

Door clicked.

_"Here, breathe into this for me, son."_

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

_"No shit, you ain't had no alcohol? Right, then. Hang tight back there. The jail's only about a fifteen minute drive away. You think you can last fifteen minutes without upchucking all over my upholstery?"_

Sputter, sputtering, turning over, _start._

He knew this. He knew this rumble. The vibrations of mechanical movement that spoke of endless highways, that spoke of camaraderie and friendship, rumblings through the steel body of a car that told stories of home.

Home, home, home…

Home was green. Home was jackets, and guns, and dusty leather, and green.

Home was curses, and scratchy rock, and green.

Home was… home was something warm…

Home was…

Home was…

…not?

_"Jesus Christ! What in the bloody hell happened to you, kid? You look like you got in a fight with a bull and lost! Screw the station, you're going to the hospital. I don't know if you'll even make it through the night. Christ, son. Just hang in there." _Fingers closed over his….arm? Hand. Hand (Friendship? Camaraderie?). An anchor.

Anchor.

An-chor. /'aNGker/

Noun.

A heavy object attached to a rope or chain and used to moor a vessel to the sea bottom, typically one having a metal shank with a ring at one end for the rope and a pair of curved and/or barbed flukes at the other.

An anchorman or anchorwoman, especially in broadcasting or athletics.

Verb.

Moor (a ship) to the sea bottom with an anchor.

Act as an anchor for (a television program or sporting event).

_"Five more minutes. Hey, kid, can you hear me? Five minutes, don't let me lose you."_

Consciousness surged through him.

"N-No! I…I…D…Dea-"

There was a name. That name was there. Begging to be said. He knew this. He knew…

What did he know…?

Voices, noise, spilling, spewing.

_"That's it, son. Keep talking, y'hear me? The nurses are gonna fix you right up, stay with us."_

No…

There was light.

There was green.

And there was darkness.

Nothing.

Falling, falling, falling…

And he knew no more.

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_Thanks for reading! Please review! C:_


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** Wowza! Thank you all so much for all the positive feedback! I'm floored by your kindness! Thank you to **Guest, WingsStarsandSky and LeeMarieJack **for reviewing! Once again, I apologize for the potential confusion that will happen in this chapter, I tried to make it seem scattered and disorganized… I hope that doesn't throw you off! Thank you and enjoy!

**Guest: **Thank you! I hope you enjoy this!

**Disclaimer: **Don't own!

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Anything is better than treachery.

-Hávamál

* * *

Hearing, auditory perception, or audition is the ability to perceive sound by detecting vibrations, changes in pressure of the surrounding medium through the reverberation of the eardrum in the ear. Hearing is a type of mechanosensation and the first sense to return after unconsciousness.

Noise came, faint, and garbled.

Near what he assumed was his head (the sounds came clearest in that area), steady beeps husked over the shuffles and murmurs of what he assumed were probably people.

People? Humans. People?

Something uneasy boiled deep in his gut, then, searing a track up his back, through his throat, and spilling from his mouth as the room erupted in clamor. Hands, cool and soft and gentle caressed his face, whispered words that held no meaning to him, telling him that he'd be "alright now", and that there was "nothing to fear". He felt his lips curl without really intending to. Humans.

People?

Women? Men?

More pressing matters came to front, fading in like the texture of the sheets, bandaging and clothing pressed against his (sore, broken, aching) skin.

Sight.

He needed to see.

Sight.

Noun

The faculty or power of seeing.

A thing that one sees or that can be seen.

Verb

Manage to see or observe (someone or something); catch and initi-

Light seared through the cracks in his lids, cutting through the furious clamouring of his mind, carving through his skin with a burning ferousity, ripping, maiming, killing him, he's gone now, in control now-

More noise. The broken, parched sounds of air and fright forced from battered lungs and a torn throat, grating like a sandpaper scream. So close, so loud, so painful, so sorry, so sorry, apologize, apologize, apologize, find some way to make it up. Hands were back, cooling, but not calming, not comforting. Something hurt. Something was broken. Something was oh, so wrong.

But what.

Strangely, he couldn't recall.

His throat blistered, his breathe came through hoarse gasps as the screaming stopped.

Oh.

His screams.

Oh.

He stuttered in another ragged breath. Still the light hurt. So he didn't open his eyes.

The machine continued murmuring in the background. Hands on his face, his arms, his chest, caressing, cooling; words meant to comfort, but only aiding the twisting in his chest.

Why did he feel so hollow, so broken, so empty?

He couldn't remember.

Whispers in his head turned to buzzing, murmurs crescendoed, louder, whiting out the world in a blaze of broken windows and glass, screams and shouts and, and, and…

White again.

White wrapped all around him.

_Cloth_, he realized.

Or well, rather, sheets.

A bed. He was on a bed.

He blinked again, squinting against the light overhead.

Sensations began to filter back into his body, touch, taste and smell in their respective orders, the husk of the sheets against his skin. Cotton. Really starched cotton sheets, his mind supplied helpfully, and softer cotton clothes. At the same time, a growing sense of discomfort seeped through his limbs, his legs, back and arms aching from being in the same position for so long, so he went to move them and-

Metal tightened around his arm. Ignoring the protest from his neck, he looked over at his wrist. Handcuffs. Handcuffs, holding him to the bed. He gave an experimental tug, only to hear the metal clink against the aluminum bed frame. His lips tugged down. That wasn't right. He shouldn't be held like this. There was something fundamentally wrong with the whole scenario, but…

…he was human, right? Why wouldn't metal be able to hold him?

"Sorry, sweet pea, it's there to keep you safe." He looked up. A woman (_nurse_, his mind whispered) smiled, the expression worn, the furrows by her mouth sharp, her brow lined. She ignored his curious stare and brushed her hair from her face, bustling over to his shackled hand, her eyebrows drawing together sharply with a gasp

"Oh, darling." She took his hand, grabbing a roll of bandaging from the nearby table, snagging the key with her finger, quickly unlocking the cuff to inspect the swollen, bloody mess of a wrist that he had.

The longer he observed his wrist, the more pain trickled through the haze over his mind. With the pain, the acrid taste of vomit and helplessness. His eyes burned for reasons he couldn't explain. The nurse frowned, her delicate features twisting into something more than a little heartbreaking, her fingers clasping his wrist with one hand, tenderly wrapping bandages around the injury with her other.

"I'm really sorry about the cuffs." She kept her voice to a minimum, just loud enough to hear her voice over the machinery and the voices in his head. He didn't move. She didn't seem to care, taping that bandage tight and moving his hand back into the cuffs. "We really don't have another choice. First, you were hurting yourself in your sleep, and then you're also kind of really under arrest for trespassing and public indecency, sweet pea."

"W…" His voice betrayed him, nothing but a faint choke of air wheezing through strained pipes. The nurse shot him an alarmed look, reaching out and gently rubbing his shoulder. The gesture felt kind. The woman was kind. Somehow, he knew. Knew that she meant him no harm.

"Stay put, okay? I'll go grab you some water. Stomach acid does awful things to your throat, doesn't it?" A tight squeeze on his shoulder, and she fluttered off. He blinked. Now that she mentioned it…

… his throat absolutely burned. Burned something hot, painful and awful, as though something had clawed out from within him, ripping and tearing him apart in the process.

A hand soothed over his hair, caressed his burning temple, tilting his head forward. Glass pressed against his lips.

"Drink up, sweet pea." So he did. The water burned as it went down his throat, his ears popped repeatedly as he swallowed, sending pain firing through his nerves. The nurse stayed there, carding her fingers through his hair, murmuring soft reassurances as he shivered and moaned.

The pain dwindled away slow enough, the remaining edge just enough to cut through the fog in his mind.

"Wh-" His voice cracked. He forced spit down his throat and tried again. "What's… going on?" The nurse stood after running her hand through his hair once more.

"I need to know what your name is, sweet pea. Gotta know that before I can tell you that any more." His brow furrowed.

"I….I don't know." He looked up at her, searching her pale gray eyes for some kind of answer. She smiled sadly at him, brushing her hair from her face again.

"We were worried you'd say that." She patted his shoulder. "Sit tight, sweet pea, I'll be back with the doctor and the sheriff." She left again.

Alone again.

Alone with the taste of bile and the stink of sweat.

And the absolutely dizzying sense of vertigo.

He closed his eyes against the light.

Mere seconds passed before he was shaken into wakefulness.

"Hey. Hey, kid. You gotta get up. Got a couple a questions for ya." He shied away from the dark, grating voice, his eyes flew open to locate the source.

A lanky, aging man hunched in the chair beside the bed, grey flecked at his temples, hair receding from his scalp. His face was worn with lines and sunspots, thousands of freckles and tiny scars littering thick, leather skin. He tried to scoot away, but the handcuffs held him in place. He pulled his free arm over his chest in a helplessly defensive gesture. The sheriff's grim expression didn't change.

"What's your name, kid?"

He blinked, before turning to the gray-eyed nurse. "I…" He cleared his throat, ignoring the sting. "I have already told the nurse, I… do not remember. I apologize." The sheriff nodded, his face blank.

"Okay. How about where you're from? Any memories of family? Friends? Work places?"

He tries to remember. He really does. He's met with a dull throb in the back of his skull.

"I… am sorry, but I can't recall anything." He gave a weak shrug. The sheriff nodded, the lines around his mouth tightened The sheriff folded his hands in front of his mouth and leaned forward, studying him with remarkable intensity.

"Alright, kid. Say I believe you. What were you doing at the reservoir, then? And why were you naked?" His voice cut.

"I… apologize. I still have no answers for you." He coughed, his throat still raw and flayed. The nurse was beside him in an instant, holding the glass against his lips. He drank greedily, ignoring the ache as the water went down. "But… I can guarantee you that I was not in the reservoir willingly, nor was I willingly naked. I can assure you that I do not find any pleasure in indecency or iniquity." He frowned sharply. "I…apologize for not quite understanding why I feel this way, though."

The sheriff said nothing, just studied him, the tense expression sliding from his face, giving way to something an awful lot like pity.

"You apologize an awful lot, don't 'ya, kid?"

He ducked his head and averted his eyes. "I…apologize?"

The sheriff chuckled softly. "You're an interesting one, stranger. Stay here for the night. I'll come speak with you some tomorrow, and we can figure out what to do with you then. I'll run some searches through databases in the area and see if there are any missing persons reports. You've been out for a solid four days, if someone's missing you, you'll be all over." The sheriff squinted at him for a moment. "An' with a face like yours, I'm fairly certain you've got a missus who's put out an alert of some kind." The sheriff gave him a pat on the knee (why were these people so intent on touching him? He didn't need their reassurances), and strode from the room in a relaxed, easy walk, his legs bowing out just so. The remaining stranger in the room cleared his throat awkwardly.

"I'm Dr. de Gereigh. I," The man shuffled over, all awkward height and gangly limbs and traces of ink peaking out from under the starched white coat that spoke of a wild youth. "I'm the one who ran some scans on you and checked you out-" He flushed. "Uh, not like that, while you were asleep."

"I was unaware there were ways to observe someone in a hospital that were outside of the realm of professionalism."

de Gereigh laughed, the tension that had help him up dissolving. "Yeah man, I mean, right." He chuckled again before sobering, pulling out copies of scans and handing them to him.

"These are the scans of your brain. The sheriff said you'd seemed rather… um, out of it, to put it one way, and that you weren't saying much of anything. Even though he didn't get any alcohol readings off of you, I thought it'd be smart to probably check your brain for any trauma or lasting injuries that could permanently cripple you and… there's nothing, man. Like… I'm no psychologist, but whatever you can't remember, that's just you not letting you remember. Your brain's all squared away."

Silence.

Save for the voice whispering in his head.

Familiar, but so faint. Words that overlapped the doctor's, ebbing and fading, like little eddies in a stream. Disgustingly distracting and probably problematic if he mentioned it to the hospital staff.

He decided to keep that part quiet.

"I…understand. Thank you for your efforts. I appreciate your hospitality. I am afraid that… I do not have any money to give you." De Gereigh laughed at that, giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder (seriously, what was up with these people? He didn't need them touching him so much).

"It's all good, man. We're a small town. Nothing interesting ever happens here, so hey, if a naked mystery man washes into town, might as well take good care of him. Heck, if you remember that you're someone famous, maybe you can bring a bit of fame and business here to us! After you leave, that is."

His brows furrowed. "I did not realize I was in your way. I shall try my hardest to heal rapidly so I may get out of your-"

"No! Hey, no way, man! You're totally fine. Uh," The doctor glanced down at his phone and swore. "uh, shit, Kay? Can you take care of him? Soren's on my ass about this."

The gray-eyed nurse (Kay) smiled. "You'd better hurry."

The doctor bolted.

Kay gave him a fragile smile.

"You can stay here as long as you need to, sweet pea. We'll find a place for you to stay, if you need it, too."

He hesitantly returned her smile.

"Thank you… I… I believe that I'm going to like it here."

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_Thank you for reading! Please review!_


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: **This is a really frickin' long chapter. I hope you're ready for a long read. Cx A big thanks to **_LeeMarieJack, Guest, onwardnary, and the-poette _**for reviewing!

**Disclaimer: **Don't own SPN characters or circumstances, but the other characters are mine. Cx

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We make men without chests and expect from them virtue and enterprise. We laugh at honor and are shocked to find traitors in our midst.

- C.S. Lewis

* * *

Time passed quickly, through bursts of conscious, clear thought and hazy, sluggish thinking. At some point the cuffs must have been removed, but once again, memory failed.

The machine kept beeping in the background.

Kay stopped by occasionally, murmuring kind words and washing his face with a cool cloth, her eyes tired, yet clear as the sky and clouds and as gray as angel wings –

Angels weren't real.

And if they were, their wings wouldn't be that colour.

A kiss on the forehead, a fleeting gesture of comfort, Kay left, and he lapsed back into a state of unconsciousness.

He fell. In his dreams. He was always falling. Down, down, down, down, down, down, the ground never in sight, but the darkness of the night sky would always fade into some hue of green, brilliant and unnerving in its intensity.

Green, green, green.

Sometimes, if he was lucky, he'd hear a voice. A voice so familiar, saying things he couldn't quite make out, but the timbre so comforting, though the tone was shattered and so broken.

_It's alright, _he told the voice once, and just like that he was drowning in shock and fear and falling straight through the earth and into fire and flames and burning, burning and it hurt and he woke, the machines screaming alarms, sirens wailing, nurses and the doctor crowding the room, pumping all sorts of drugs into the IV, through other machinery, into his arm, and he was gone.

He didn't try speaking to the voice again.

When the voice did come back, he just listened, staying just out of reach, letting the soft, gruff sound wash over him and give him a sense that maybe, just maybe, he'd be able to remember. Eventually.

But nothing ever returned.

Once, he awoke to an empty room, save for doctor de Gereigh. He attempted to open his mouth, but his tongue weighed heavy against his teeth and his throat closed up. He tried moving, but whatever sedative they'd given him rendered his muscles useless. So, he just stared back, his pulse thudding heavily in his ears. De Gereigh looked at him for a long while, his eyes glittering in the strip of sunlight that filtered through the blinds, green, iridescent, and haunting, heavy furrows in his brow and clenching at the corner of his eyes, his lips twisting in something stuck between a frown and a grimace. He blinked at the doctor. De Gereigh sighed and turned to the window, pushing up a blind or two to get a better glimpse of the outside world.

"You're someone really special, aren't you?"

He said nothing.

"I can tell, just by your whole… I don't know. Your look, I guess. Man, you're pretty damn important. I just… I don't know." De Gereigh gave a heavy sigh, shaking his head. "I really friggin' hope the drugs don't let you remember any of this. Otherwise this is going to be really, really weird."

De Gereigh's voice faded, and faded fast, the morphine surged through his system once again, bringing him back to the brink of unconscious bliss. Right before his hearing abandoned him, he swore he heard the doctor speak again.

_"Oh, Castiel… hang in there, I swear things are gonna look up for you." _

When he woke again, he remembered nothing.

Kay came in later to fix his bandages.

He noticed a dark purple bruise on her neck and pointed it out, only to have the nurse give an embarrassed yelp and flush dark red, tugging her scrubs higher up on her neck, a faint smile pulling at her lips.

Oh.

"It was, ah, my husband and I's anniversary yesterday."

And it's all so very clear. He nearly scolded himself when he saw the thin, silver band around her finger. Of course. Kay just laughed softly at his irritated expression.

"I don't make a big deal about things, sweet pea." He frowned anyways and she laughed again, ruffled his hair and left, with a promise to maybe bring him some fruit juice or milk the next day, to start getting actual fluids in him. He nodded once and she was gone.

The next day, the sheriff stopped by to check up on him.

"Heya, kid. You're looking lots better than when I found you."

"Th…" He coughed, clearing his throat. It felt like lead. "Thank you. I am… feeling much better. The staff here is exceptionally kind." The sheriff nodded, his face still carefully blank.

"They are somethin' special here. You're in good hands, son."

"I am beginning to understand that. I am very blessed to have ended up here."

The sheriff gave him a calculating look, then huffed, the corners of his mouth turning up, the grizzled features softening, just so.

"Damn straight you are. Look, kid, the lab tests came back, and you ran clean for everything, from stuff as simple as pot to the high end stuff, like crack. So yer pretty damn lucky that I'm not gonna have to throw you in jail."

"I…thank you. I appreciate it." The sheriff shrugged, handing him the test analysis, before standing, straightening his hat, and sauntering from the room, with that same slow, bow-legged walk. He watched the sheriff go, his eyes not leaving the door for a long time.

Later, after he'd shuffled through the papers and set them aside, Kay came with a cut up apple and soy milk, and he munched on that, reveling in the strangely vivid taste. It was almost as if… as if he'd never… never…

Kay made some offhand comment, and the train of thought was forgotten.

It was good here. He felt safe in this small-town community, with kind people and their caring attitudes.

It was nice.

It was a change-

He started.

Something had nearly trickled back through the dam of repressed memories but…

But… it was gone now.

"Hey, kid? You got a place to stay once you're healed up?" The sheriff peered around the corner, gauging his reaction. He shook his head.

"As I do not have any memories of my life prior to this, I am afraid I do not have anywhere to stay." The sheriff gave him a long, pensive look.

"I figured as much. We've got a spare guard's room back at the jail. Once all of…this," He made a broad, encompassing gesture towards him with his hand. "is healed up, yer welcome to stay. 'Course, I might have you do a few chores, I ain't gonna let you get lazy on me, son."

His lips pulled up in what he supposed must appear as a smile.

"I… appreciate that. You are very kind. Thank you."

The sheriff actually grinned, tanned face folding with thick, ridged lines, his freckles popping out.

"Atta kid. Have one of those nurses you've got wrapped around you finger give me a call when you've got the all-clear." The sheriff paused. "The name's Hendrixson. Daniel Hendrixson. See 'ya round, kid." Hendrixson clapped him on the shoulder, then strolled off, whistling some tune under his breath.

He sat in silence for a long time after Hendrixson left, picking at the bindings around his chest and inspecting the damage.

Bad was an understatement.

Granted, in the time he'd been flickering in and out of awareness, he seemed to have healed some, but…

There wasn't a single recognizable patch of skin from his chest down. Pink, curling snarls tore down from the base of his sternum, giving the illusion of a stomach cleaved open, his ribs and abdomen a woven mass of purpled bruises and contusions.

"Ow."

Thank the Father for morphine.

More observations. His left arm remained unscarred, save for the wrapping around his wrist, his right arm unblemished as well. He didn't really want to look at his legs. Considering he still felt echoes of pain hissing up from his right leg, even with all the drugs, it was probably shattered. He let his head thump back against the wall. Well, so much for walking or standing, or _moving_ like a normal person for maybe the next hundred years or so.

"Son of a…" He stopped himself. He didn't curse, did he? He… he didn't curse. He didn't curse? He didn't curse.

Kay stopped by later on, checking and switching his bandages. With her, a pair of crutches. For him. So he could move, and not, as she put it "be stuck in a wheelchair" because he "didn't seem like you'd like that all too much, you seem like someone who doesn't really like sitting still". He didn't know what he was like, so he just assumed she was right. She smiled at him. He felt his lips quirk up into something like a smile back.

She finished rewrapping his wrist.

"Carson will be in to check on you later. He's been saying that you should be able to get out of the hospital itself by tomorrow or the day after."

He blinked, his eyes narrowing. She stared back.

Then, "OH! Of course, sorry! Carson de Gereigh. Your doctor. He's a family friend," She laughed, the noise tense and anxious. "We, uh, we practically grew up together. He's a good guy." She hesitated, then flashed a tense smile. "Yeah, good guy."

He nodded in response. "I shall trust his judgment."

Her smile relaxed into something more genuine.

"Good," she murmured, straightening out the IV and the chords around some of the equipment. She put her hands on her hips then, a mock frown plastered on her face. "Behave while I'm gone, okay? I know how difficult that is for you."

He blinked and gave a faint nod. She laughed and pressed a kiss to his temple, ruffled his hair and trotted out, shouting a reminder over her shoulder not to mess with the IV.

He resumed staring out the small window.

De Gereigh did come in later that day, as promised, giving him the all clear to go ahead and attempt some light movement and maybe even a few steps with the aid of crutches. When he didn't leave, he realized that the doctor meant that he should attempt movement now.

Oh.

Daunting was an understatement.

He moved his arms behind him, pushing himself up to sit better.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed.

De Gereigh stepped closer, handed him the crutches and remained nearby in case his body decided to fail him.

He leaned against the crutches.

Stood.

One step.

A second.

Another.

And another.

And ano-

The ground surged forth to meet him in a rush of screaming monitors, clattering crutches and a shout from de Gereigh that he couldn't quite hear, before his head collided with something solid, and everything went dark.

_"Castiel!"_

* * *

He dreamt of monsters.

Monsters more hideous than the mind could conceive, bodies clothed in scales, maws gaping with blood and the stench of rot, derelict wings stretching out from a jagged spine.

Writhing, twisting, churning.

Lakes. Water. Drowning.

Down, down, down.

Tails lashed about , the scales husking, spines rippling down a serpentine body.

It spoke to him. But he couldn't quite hear the words.

Something flicked out from its mouth.

Oh.

A tongue.

Around his throat.

_"So you will speak, so you will talk of us, but no one will hear you."_

The tongue tightened and he was gasping, fighting for a breath of air, but none came, and the air screamed and wailed with piercing beeps and whirs and then, and then-

_"Stay with us, sweet pea, you can't quit on us yet! Please don't give up yet, you've probably got someone out there who needs you, who loves you."_

Green eyes flashed.

Oxygen rushed back into his lungs and he was gasping, floundering, fingers scrabbling at the sheets and grasping around thin air.

The name-!

There-

It-

Nothing.

Kay's face blocked out the light, mouth moving, her hands cradling his face.

He couldn't hear anything, just the blood rushing in his ears, drowning out the name, _his _name, drowning, drowning, drowning, drowning.

He passed out again.

* * *

De Gereigh was standing by the windowsill when he regained consciousness, his cap off, the sides of his skull shorn, only the middle section of his hair grown long.

It struck him as very unprofessional, and probably violated some kind of dress code somewhere. But then again, so did the tattoos and various piercings.

"I moved here from New York."

Oh.

"I ran an ink shop up there while I was getting my med degree from John Hopkins. If you've got your license from some prestigious university, no one's going to complain much about your appearance."

His skepticism must have shown on his face, because de Gereigh laughed quietly.

"I know, I seem like a shit doctor after I let you collapse like that. To be honest, your body is perfectly ready to handle the strain. Medically, you were fine. But… I guess your brain is screwed up in more ways than we initially thought." De Gereigh was looking at him now, his eyebrows drawn together, the corner of his mouth pulling up in some small, sad smile.

"I…" His throat wasn't working again. He coughed, his eyes never leaving de Gereigh's face. "I would like to try walking again."

De Gereigh looked conflicted.

"Please."

The doctor sighed. "Of course. Just… um, give me a sec to get your crutches again." He left and returned before he could talk himself out of walking. De Gereigh handed him the crutches and he swung his legs over the edge again. Time to move.

He stood. A step. Swung the crutches forward. Another step. Swung the crutches forward. Again.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

He felt his lips pull up.

He walked. He _actually walked._ The road to recovery wasn't quite so daunting any longer. De Gereigh was laughing, clapping and saying vaguely encouraging things. He could care less. He walked. He wasn't useless any more. He could pull his own weight. He could be a tool ag-

The train of thought vanished yet again and he nearly cursed in displeasure. Always so close to memories… and then nothing.

He realized he'd swung himself halfway down the hall by now, de Gereigh hurrying alongside him, pushing the IV and asking questions about how he felt, trying to convince him to slow down, but who was he to hold him here? In this small place? He would not be conta-

"Seriously! You gotta stop or I'll sedate you!"

He stopped short. De Gereigh bent over, panting, hands on his thighs.

"Christ, I thought you'd never stop."

He stared at the doctor.

"Right. Sorry, uh, sorry, man, for threatening you, but uh, you can't just hobble out of here. I've got to give you a few more scans and shit, but after that, I can release you to the sheriff. Got it?"

More staring.

"Um. Okay. Let's… let's get back to the room."

He huffed and began the slow process of hopping back to the room.

"You can probably leave later today, alright?"

"It's not that I desire to leave immediately, I apologize for leaving so…" He cleared his throat. "abruptly. I do not like being contained, or restrained, for that matter."

De Gereigh laughed, nervous and tense. "You won't be, uh, restrained, anymore. Sorry about the cuffs, it's just… you were thrashing and screaming out names in your sleep, and we kind of… had to."

He nodded shortly.

"I understand." He murmured, entering his room and shuffling over the bed.

De Gereigh checked his heart, lungs and redid some of the bandaging around his arms.

"Kay will be around to see you out later, alright? Just don't… run off. That'd be… be bad."

He stared at the doctor for a long moment, before nodding slowly.

"Very well."

He only dimly remembered de Gereigh flooding the IV with morphine before he slipped back under, the sound of the door clicking shut chasing him into the darkness.

* * *

_Thank you for reading! Please review! *As an additional note, I haven't been hospitalized for extensive periods of time, so I may be wrong with some of the procedures in place for long term patients, so my apologies for my medical inaccuracies!*_


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: **(Been marathoning all of Supernatural from the beginning again. Aaahsdfjaldghvfadn Dean looks like such a babbyyyyy. 3 What a cutie pieeeee.) Anywho, sorry for the wait for this chapter, I started it on Thanksgiving, I wanted to get this up at the end of the day, but I guess it didn't work out… so sorry! But, anyways, here it is! Once again, thank you to the all too kind reviewers, **LeeMarieJack, onwardnary, the-poette, Sinthija, and WingsStarsAndSky! **You all are far too kind, thank you for the kind words and the encouragement! Yes, this will end up being a Destiel fic, but for now, it's going to be heavily Cas centric… I don't think Dean comes in until like… chapter 10 or 11. And even then, it's going to be a slow burn… but don't lose faith! It will be worth it, I swear! C:

**Disclaimer: **Don't own anything aside from the original characters, which are 100% mine. And my beta's. But details, right?

* * *

I have not slain men.

-Confessions of the Righteous Soul, Book of the Dead.

* * *

Sundown coated the room in red when he awoke.

The sound of footsteps faded in and out of the stifling silence.

All the machinery, the miles and miles of wires coiled around his arms and laced into his skin, was gone.

He was alone. Always alone.

Light from the setting sun filled more of the room than anything else did, the computers gone, the steadfast beat of the heart monitor long silenced. He grabbed the crutches from the side of the bed and hobbled over to the window.

The sun dripped scarlet from the clouds, spattering across the barren cornfields; draining from setting sun, as if the sky couldn't contain the colours painted across its canvas, choosing instead to coat the walls, and the ceiling, and the floors in blood, tracks of blood that spilled from temples and down its body because the sky was a vessel that couldn't hold it in and-

Lonely. Lonely, was the most apt descriptor, he decided.

A smattering of houses, a water tower, a factory or two propped up against the horizon, belching smoke and soot into the air, telephone wires reaching across long tracks of land, and a single road into town.

"I know, it's not much."

He spun around. De Gereigh leaned against the doorframe, lab coat off, dressed in loose jeans and a soft, grey t-shirt.

"Sheriff says that you're free to go to the jail to stay. Says they've got a spare guard's room down there, or something. I'm here to give you my all clear – I'll help you head out whenever you're ready." He murmured, his voice a mere hush in the silence of the emptied room. He nodded vaguely, taking in the doctor's relaxed stance. He wasn't lying. He was free to go.

"Thank you. I believe I'd like to leave now. To spend another night here seems very unappealing."

De Gereigh chuckled. "I'll bet. C'mon, let's get you out of here." He pulled a wheelchair from around the corner and gave an apologetic shrug. "Sorry, man, standard procedure." And truly, the doctor did seem somewhat apologetic, his mouth quirked up, brows knitting together. He nodded, shuffling forward and sagging down in the chair.

"Hendrixson's waiting out front for you, 'kay?" de Gereigh asked, his voice echoing in the quiet halls.

Another nod in response.

They continued on through the halls, a few scattered conversations from the nurses skirting past them. By the time they reached the front entry to the hospital, he had grown frustrated with both the doctor's slow pace and the uncomfortable silence that stretched on and on and on. The sheriff's waiting patrol car was a welcome sight.

"Stay safe, okay? If anything happens, we'll be here to help out. Sound good?" De Gereigh asked again, wringing his hands, shifting his weigh back and forth on his feet.

He gave the doctor a look that was only missing the irritated eye roll. De Gereigh held up his hands in surrender and backed off. The sheriff sauntered over, holding out a pair of crutches.

"Ready to get out of here, kid?" He asked, gruff tone masking a something softer in his voice. He just glanced at the sheriff, stony expression saying everything. The sheriff clapped him on the shoulder and turned, opening the passenger side door. He hobbled forward, gingerly sitting down and swinging his legs in, the crutches resting across his laps. The sheriff started the car and soon de Gereigh and the hospital faded into the back of the mirror.

The drive was short, as the jail was a mere few blocks away. Both driver and passenger remained silent the whole time, one story houses flashing by, white picket fence and the apple pie life. A pickup truck, here and there, a small child toddling around in a kid-sized toy car, two adults in a swing set, laughing. A small town, but quaint. Quiet. It was only when they walked into the jail that the sheriff spoke.

"Y'know, kid, I don't know too much about you, but I could use a hand around here. Ever since Irene quit, we haven't had the easiest time keeping this place maintained."

He glanced over, but Hendrixson's eyes remained fixed on the door lock, as he fumbled with the keys.

"If I am able to help, I will do so to the best of my ability. I am… very grateful for your hospitality and would very much like to repay your kindness." His throat still ached some when he talked. He swallowed.

Hendrixson chuckled, pushing open the door at last, giving him an amused glance. "Kid, you sound like you've got a stick up your ass. I ain't gonna arrest you."

He followed the sheriff in, careful not to catch his crutches on the step.

"Thank you. And… I apologize?"

Hendrixson full out laughed at that, tossing the keys on the desk in the corner, before leading him to the small room in the back of the jail.

"I thought we already had this conversation, son! You ain't got to apologize for no one. Well, so far. We took your prints, too, and we're running them through the base. So far, though, you've come up totally clean. Unfortunately for you, though, that means we have no idea who in the hell you are." Hendrixson shot him an apologetic from the corner of his eye, leathered skin twisting, creating endless canyons around his eyes, across his brow, besides his mouth. They passed a lone inmate, a flash of his figure outlined in the dim light filtered through the bars.

"Alright, you'll stay here. It ain't the best out there, yeah, I know, and Goddamn, I am sorry 'bout that, but all the same, ya' got a cot, a dresser, and a light. Shower and toilet's down this hallway and on your right," He pointed out of the room towards the restrooms. "… and we can probably get a cards table in here sometime tomorrow if you've got any hobbies or anything." The sheriff tipped his hat and nodded, before stuffing his hands in his front pockets.

He turned to face Hendrixson, gripping his shoulder tight.

"It is more than I could have asked for. Thank you. I do not deserve this." His voice still rasped uncomfortably, but it was better. So much better than what it was.

The sheriff gave him a wry grin.

"Don't thank me yet. You've got to listen to the jailbirds moan about their life. Lucky for you, it's only Lee right now," He paused, glancing back out in the hall, his lips pulling up, the lines on his face softening. "…Lee's a real good guy. If you get bored, he'll entertain you with some real good talk. He's a right clever bastard, too, and he's got a good heart. Got a hell of a nasty temper, though. But, he's all that we've got locked up for now. You'll be fine." The sheriff chuckled, inclined his head just so, and sauntered from the room. "Get some sleep, kid." He called back, as he left. "You, too, Lee." To which the response was too muffled to distinguish.

The jail fell silent, save for the soft breaths of the man he presumed to be Lee.

He shut the door, effectively closing off the last of that sound, too, before turning and hobbling over to the cot, tossing his crutches aside and slumping down, pulling the thin sheet over his shoulders.

Sleep, the evasive bastard it was, did not come easy. He laid there for ages, counting the seconds between each flash of light from the fire alarm over his heaven.

One, two, three, four-

One, two, three, four-

One, two, three, four-

One, two… three…fou-

One… two…three-

One… two…

He didn't put up a fight when exhaustion finally took him, sending him plunging down, down, down down.

Falling, falling, falling.

Air whipped through his fingers, shapes like stars pulsing behind his eyes, the front of his clothes plastered to his chest, but still he pressed on, surging forth, towards the Earth, towards the ground, breaking through the dirt, shattering the barrier between the dimensions and there was fire, and flames, and burning, and searing, and pain and-

And still, he fell.

Through masses of people, writhing under the fury of hellish winds, blown about, twisting and screaming, clawing at the air, at him, trying to buffet him from his path.

He fell through, this talons like feathers against his skin.

Through the never ending icy rain and the ceaseless slush and sleet that gathered on his skin.

Still falling.

Through the endless flaming tombs, trapping their victims like a grill, burning and roasting their flesh, until the skin blackened and hollowed and burst with pockets of air, only to have the flesh regrow, for all of eternity.

And he hit the bottom.

The air clogged his lungs, thick and coppery, wet and slick with taste of blood, the ground beneath his feet a strange mix of blood and dirt, and various bits of metal. Chains spiraled down from the sky, faint, agonized screams ringing in his ears. Without warning, monsters began crawling forth.

Oh, fuck, the _monsters._

Faceless horrors, with snarls and teeth for faces, human flesh trailing from their bodies in long, rotting strips, all massive, monstrous size and hardened, scarred horns and joints, weapons of various shapes and sizes, all twisted, barbaric and painful clenched tight in their claws. Snarling creatures pressed against all sides, but still he had to go on, do not stop fighting, never stop fighting, fight and reach him, reach him, he must be saved, he must be-

He awoke to shouting.

Muffled through the door, but all the same, panicked shouts, coming from the lone inmate. He sat up abruptly, ignoring the sharp pain that lanced through his back, radiating from his chest. His heart contracted sharply and he grabbed at his chest, a pained gasp tearing through chapped lips. His sides contracted and he was coughing, a filthy, wet, weak sound, something hot, burning up his throat and searing down his lips, dripping from his chin in a bloom of crimson across the sheets. He swore.

It was of no import. Another shout from outside. He fumbled with his crutches, using them as leverage to heave himself to his feet, and promptly hobbled towards the door. It ended up requiring more effort than he would have liked to admit to simply turn the handle and open the door.

He hopped out of the room, down the hall a bit, stopping in front of the cell block. Lee stood, pressed against the bars, all sharp colours and harsh angles in the white light of the overhead lamp. The tense lines across his brows relaxed as he swung himself into view.

"Oh thank God, you're alright." Lee's voice rasped, as if his throat burned and ached.

"I did not realize I was in any immediate danger."

"I…I didn't think you were either, but you were screaming pretty loud, so I figured it had to be something awful that you probably didn't want to sleep through." Lee ran knotted fingers through a tangled mess of red hair, brushing stray locks from his face, unnerving green eyes never breaking eye contact.

"I must admit, it does raise suspicions for an inmate to appear to have outwardly kind intentions." He managed to croak, his throat stinging something terrible. Lee huffed out a laugh.

"Bar fight, mate. I'd had one or two too many, and ended up in a fight with some asshole who'd been making moves on my wife. What sucks is that the fucker hit the road and got out before the sheriff could do anything. He was just passing through, so we couldn't have really kept him anyways, but me…" He sighed heavily, slouching down on the cell bench. "…me, I'm stuck in here for a few days. The wife's disappointed, but not surprised, which only serves to make it all so much worse." Lee ran a hand over his mouth, before dropping his head into his hands, heels of his palms rubbing against his eyelids. "Sorry, mate. I just… frustrated. Shouldn't have been dropping all my shit on you, I'm sorry about that."

He nodded, still turning over his monologue in his mind.

"You started a fight… to protect your wife?" For some reason, that bit stuck out to him.

Lee's face lit up, his smile turning wistful. "Yeah, mate. She's the best thing to ever happen to me." He ducked his head down, trying to hide the grin on his face. "It was our anniversary a few days…" Lee talked on, over the sound of information slotting together in his head.

"Kay is your wife?" He didn't need to ask. He knew. But for courtesy's sake…

Lee froze, fixing him with that penetrating, acid stare.

"Yeah. She is." Lee answered, shifting uneasily, gaze unbroken.

Green, green, green.

He nodded in response, and gave a small smile.

"She is a very kind woman. She loves you very much." When Lee's gaze didn't falter, he clarified. "Kay was… one of the nurses who watched over me during my stay at the hospital."

Lee's eyes lit up with recognition. "_You're _the amnesiac?"

"I…yes." His lips pulled slightly at the surprise on Lee's face, which quickly vanished, a pained expression crossing the man's face.

"She told me you were having awful nightmares at the hospital, too. I'm sorry, mate."

Something unknown rushed into his system, something dizzying and unpleasant, as his stomach lurched uncomfortably. He tightened his grip on his crutches.

"I…thank you for waking me. My dreams were… unpleasant, as your wife already stated." He hesitated, but the words formed and dissolved on his tongue so rapidly, he couldn't find a coherent sentence. He shut his mouth, turned, taking one step, before pausing again. "Thank you for your concern, and I… I hope you are able to get some rest."

Lee's lips curled up slightly, not enough to make it a smile, but just enough so that it was… _something_.

"Yeah. Thanks, mate. I will." Lee let himself slide down against his cot, tugging his blankets back up over his lean frame. He paused, glancing back up. "Hey, since Kay told me you don't remember your name, what should I call you?"

"I do not know. I… It is rather frustrating."

Lee nodded as if that made sense. "Gotcha. 'Night."

"Sleep well." He responded, before crutching back down the hall to the guard's room, pushing through the door and flicking on the lights. His sheets were stained with blood, a small trail of drops reaching for the entryway across the stone floor. It was a going to leave a poor impression, at best, on the sheriff.

He groaned, shuffling across the floor to the cot, avoiding the blood and the desk. Perhaps it would be best to sleep with the lights on for the night, a futile, but placating, gesture to ward off the nightmares, and hopefully, additional bouts of illness. Keeping this in mind, he let his body crumple to the floor, whispers of pain haunting the fringes of his being. He shut his eyes, grasping the sheets and pulling them over his body again.

Sleep didn't come. Rather, he prayed for some kind of relief or reprieve from the flickers of what he thought to be memories that danced at the edge of consciousness. So close. So attainable. But he could never quite grasp them. But of course, relief never came. He rolled to his back, staring at the ceiling again. The flashes from the fire alarm faint under the light from the lamp. Folds in the paint curved across the ceiling, fractals forming shapes, shapes forming pictures and pictures telling stories.

The paint outlined the figure of a man, a single, lone man, moving across the ceiling, fighting, shooting the creatures who opposed him, never stopping to reach his… friend? Close friend. Almost like… brothers. The two of them against the world, fighting, and fighting, and still fighting.

Something in his chest twisted, the story hitting some strange chord within his chest, a chord he didn't know could be struck. And how it hurt.

The pain intensified, searing through him. He dimly felt his eyes rolling back in their sockets, and he was gone.

He didn't dream.

There was just…nothing.

Nothing but darkness, and cold.

So cold.

_"Hey!"_

So cold, so absolutely cold, cold seeping in through every pore, freezing, and chilling and petrifying.

_"Hey, kid! You've gotta wake up, or I'm taking you back to the hospital! You've got to be kidding me, mother fu-"_

Socoldsocoldsocoldsocoldsocoldsocoldso-

Eyes flew open, freezing air flooding through cracked lips and down a shredded throat, pain scorching through his lungs, dragging in desperate breaths that blistered and seared and _hurt,_ hands outstretched, clenching in the pressed cotton of the sheriff's shirt, the sheriff's leather face clogging his vision, his mouth moving, shaping words and sentences, but the blood pounded in his ears, the world beyond the sheriff whirling and twirling like a dervish, faster and faster and faster and faster and faster and-

He fell back into silence to the sound of shouting.

* * *

_Thank you for reading! Please review! Thanks for putting up with all my medical and technical inaccuracies! I apologize if it was overly distracting from the story. Once again, this is un-beta'd and un-fact checked, so if Cas is getting out of character, I am so sorry, please let me know!_


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:** Apologies for the delay! It's been a hectic year – so here's to the new year and to the Sherlock season 3 premiere! Also, here's to decent writers for the after the midseason premiere. And to the episode Misha's going to direct. Also, terribly sorry if this episode seems hazy or distraught. There was a lot to fit in here, and it wasn't quite to the exciting bits that are coming up really soon! Sorry!

Once again, a big thank you to **_PlaidWrappedMoose, LeeMarieJack, FandomLover148 _**and **_Guest_**. You all are too sweet. xoxo

**Disclaimer:** Not mine! Don't own anything but the characters other than Castiel and the plot. Enjoy. C;

* * *

Verily, verily I say unto you; unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone, but if it dies, it bears much fruit. He who loves his life loses it.

John 12:24

* * *

Water lapped against warped wood, puffs of air ghosted over a lake of glass.

A bird chirped.

Silence.

The wind dragged the taste of algae and rot into his face, whipping the bangs from his forehead, combing paths through his hair. Gently rolling clouds curved across a pale washed sky, the sun behind them stained the edges gold.

It was…nice.

Quiet.

Safe.

Bulrushes whispered at the edge of the dock, hushing against the planks.

_Safe._

_"C'mon, hang in there, son. Just keep breathing. Don't you die on me yet, not when-"_

The water swelled, the dock letting out a soft groan before the water fell, again and again and again.

Hypnotic.

Safe.

The weathered oaks along the banks swayed, long limbs reaching, brushing against each other; haunted lovers reaching for their beloved, but missing, missing.

The man beside him cleared his throat.

He paused, taking in the lake once more, before turning to look at the man beside him.

_"Kid, I'm gonna need you to wake up. Kid, can you hear me?"_

A flash of light burned a tear between them.

He couldn't see the other man, He needed-

_"Hang in there, you're gonna be alright now, son."_

He just-

The man-

_Green._

He awoke, gasping, his chest heaving.

Cold, sweating.

He drew a hand over his mouth, ignoring the acute tremble in his hands. Just a dream. Just a dream.

_Just a dream._

A cough.

He looked over.

Hendrixson sat at the small bench beneath the window, his weathered hands folded, elbows resting on his knees. The crow's feet around his eyes seemed like canyons in the pale morning light, the shadows from a drawn brow painting a curtain across his face.

He opened his mouth to speak, but his windpipe tightened, constricted, cutting off his words. He cleared his throat.

"G-Good morning." His voice rasped, his words rattling like gravel. The sheriff gave him a tired smile.

"Heya, kid. Nice to count you among the living." Hendrixson straightened, running a hand through his hair. His lips crinkled up into something that should have been a smile, but lacked all the humor. "You nearly died last night, son. What's going on with you? After you stopped coughing, I called de Gereigh, about the tear his head off for letting you out so early, but he said, medically, aside from those nasty cuts, you're golden. A broken leg and a couple of bruises shouldn't be giving you this much trouble."

A moment passed as that sank in.

"I'm afraid I don't understand how this is possible. I don not feel as though I am in danger of passing away." He managed to get out, swallowing uncomfortably, before glancing back up at the sheriff. "May I ask for a glass of water?"

The sheriff huffed, but tossed him the half empty water bottle from the desk. "Drink up, son. You sure sound like you need it."

He inclined his head as thanks and took a few sips, before tipping the bottle back and drinking greedily, ignoring the burn as it went down. The sheriff cleared his throat as he put the bottle down, shifting slightly in the chair.

"Son, are we going to talk about the fact that you nearly died last night? Or maybe that the doctor who got his degree from one of the top medical colleges in America says you should be fine?"

He blinked over at the sheriff. Hendrixson gave him an expectant look.

"No."

Hendrixson's eyes narrowed, features crinkling, canvassed skin cording, before he abruptly stood.

The chair squealed as it knocked back against the hard wood floor.

"Son," The sheriff's voice grated against his already growing headache. "you do realize that you nearly _died last night_." The sheriff's voice rose considerably, the small room ringing slightly from the volume.

"You just said that the doctor who got his degree from an especially well recognized higher institution has deemed me to be medically sound, exempting my arm and leg, I don't understand why I would have had a near death encounter." Granted, the words came out significantly harsher than he intended, but the expression on Hendrixson's face told him he got the message. Hendrixson leveled him with a final glare before heading towards the door. He paused one last time before heading out.

"I know you're frustrated kid. I… I do get that. But just… just consider going back in to the hospital or something. I know I shoulda taken you in last night, but the second I reached for the phone, you just stopped, like you hadn't been vomiting blood in the first place. Don't make me regret not calling it in more than I already do."

He nodded. The sheriff gave him one last tired smile before leaving, the door clicking shut behind him.

He sat on the floor for a long while.

Nearly died.

He should have felt perturbed. He should have felt frightened. Worried. Scared.

But there was nothing. Nothing at all. Almost as if he should expect to be injured.

As if some form of rigorous training had been drilled through his subconscious.

Perhaps he was a soldier? Or a fighter?

It didn't matter now. Now, now was the time to try… something. Perhaps a life. Perhaps try to find his old one. Either way, dwelling on the past was ill advised, at best.

He reached over for the crutches, using them as leverage to get to his feet.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Turning to the door, he hobbled over, shifting his weight, opening the door, and slowly swung through.

Sunlight bathed the hallway in a velvet yellow haze, the tile floors glittering like the surface of a lake.

Like water rising, and falling, gently, gently-

"Hey! You're alive!" Lee sat cross-legged, leaning against the bars of the cell.

"That is the general consensus, yes." He replied, once again ignoring the faint ache that accompanied talking. Lee gave him a strange look. Then, a huffed out laugh.

"If the general consensus is Hendrixson, you and myself, then yeah, you look pretty alive to me." Lee's voice brought to mind smoke from a house fire, rasping and thick. He nodded and glanced at the clock.

11:42 in the morning.

Lee caught his gaze and followed it.

"Yeah, you slept a bit late. Sheriff came back after two separate calls to see if you'd woke. This last time he came back from the middle of a search for some lost dog."

"The sheriff searches for lost pets."

"Yeah. It's a small town. Can't really say much. Everyone knows everyone. Sheriff's a good guy and helps out all he can."

He nodded again, hobbled down to the sheriff's desk and pushed his chair down the hall.

He sat in front of Lee's cell, propping his crutches against the wall.

Lee quirked an eyebrow. "Am I interesting enough to hold a conversation with now?"

He gave Lee a withering look. "You've always been interesting."

Lee paused, his eyes roving his face with something closer to desperation than shock, searching, his eyebrows knitting, the lines carving ages into his face, his expression falling to one of aching honesty.

And then his face shut down. A soft chuckle, just the corner of his mouth curling, really, and the expression vanished.

"I'm nothing interesting. Hell, if I was interesting, I'd be somewhere decent, not in this backwater town in Colorado."

Self deprecation. Oh, so familiar, how typical of-

Of-

Of-

"Hey, you there, man?" A nervous noise, caught between a laugh and a whimper. "Has anyone told you the staring is a bit… odd?"

He refocused on Lee. "I do not believe so, no. At least, not in my memory, which, as you know, is all of a few days." He replied softly.

Lee cringed.

"I'm sorry, mate, I forgot." Lee said, turning to sit facing him, his hands folded in his lap. He really did look apologetic.

"Thank you."

Judging by the look Lee shot at him, that, perhaps, was not the most appropriate of responses. Then again, judging by how he dropped the subject, perhaps it was the one that worked the best. Lee folded his fingers before his face, his nose resting on top of his knuckles, his eyes closed.

Lee didn't make another attempt to move, or speak, so he looked down the hall, back towards the sheriff's desk, trying to occupy his thoughts.

But there was nothing.

Even the dreams he must have had through the night. He tried to recall, but-

It just…

Nothing.

The door clanged open, the sheriff pushed through looking worn, but his lips pulled back in a smile, a second man following through close behind.

"Heya, kid," The sheriff tipped his hat as greeting. "I've got someone you should meet." The other man moved up and extended his hand. His hand was wrinkled, with calluses on his thumbs gained only from long hours of study, or constant reading. He took the hand, and they shook.

"Reverend Allen, it's good to finally meet the strange man who's been the talk of the town." The Reverend's voice rumbled, rich and dark as his skin, weary and weathered by age. Both the sheriff and the reverend looked at him expectantly.

"Hello, reverend. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance." He managed. His throat was really starting to ache again.

The reverend smiled kindly. "The sheriff says you haven't been able to remember your name."

"I have not. It is… rather distressing."

Allen laughed, a fully bellied, heart-warming sound. "I would imagine so." He murmured, his eyes still alight with amusement. "Are you a religious man?"

"I would like to believe so."

The reverend smile again, his expression kinder, if that was possible. "Good. I was thinking, if you can't remember your name, perhaps you'd like to call yourself something based off of a biblical story while you work on getting your name back."

He squinted at the reverend, tilting his head slightly. "What do you mean?"

"You showed up here with nothing, broken, and unable to remember your name. You say that you're a man of God? I think perhaps you're a bit like Saul. Saul was in a bad spot, doing terrible things with his life. Now I'm not saying you did, but, you see, God had a different purpose for Saul than what he was doing. So, while Saul was on a journey to Damascus, God blinded him with a light from heaven, and gave him instructions of what he must do in order to regain his sight. He told him to continue to Damascus and find the righteous man, Ananias, who would then teach and help him. Once Saul listened to the righteous man and followed his words, the damage to his eyes was cleared, and he could see again. Inspired, he changed his name to Paul, and because one of the greatest preachers and speakers we have ever known. When you remember who you are, it will be like the light returning after blindness." He glanced over and must have seen something in his expression, because he laughed again. "I know, I know, it's a stretch-"

"No! I…I agree, it is a good idea. It's certainly better to have a name than to have nothing. I… I also think that perhaps you… you might be right about the direction of my life. I do not feel like a bad man, but… I feel as though you are right."

Allen nearly beamed. "Look at that, you've got a name, now, Saul."

Saul nodded. A name. Something that was his. It felt… nice.

"Thank you, reverend. Our Father will keep you safe, I know it." His throat still ached. Allen smiled and ruffled his head, before turning to the sheriff.

"It's been nice talking with you, Dan. I will be sure to pray for all you have asked me about." He clapped a hand on the sheriff's shoulder. "Be strong, my friend. All is not lost."

The sheriff inclined his head, murmuring his thanks. The priest turned to give the newly christened Saul a last, long look.

"Things will get better for you, Saul." Allen's lips lifted at the corners. "You will find your righteous man."

"I…thank you." Was all he said, because really, how exactly does one reply to that? The reverend gave him a nod and lifted his hand as turned to the door.

"Bye now, you take care." And with that, he left. Saul and Hendrixson watched the door slam shut behind him. Hendrixson turned to face him, leathered face crinkling around the edges.

"So, kid. You've got yourself a name now. Saul. What d'ya think?"

Saul. Saul made his appearance in Acts 7:58, and then two verses later in the first verse of Acts:8, and then was disregarded until Acts 9:1, and remained Saul until verse 31, in which the book of Acts focused in on Peter. Saul is not again mentioned until Acts 12:25, in which the story resumed with Saul and Barnabas having been sent off.

The Acts of the Apostles, original Latin: Acta Apostolorum, shorted to Acts is the fifth book of the New Testament, in which the history of the Apostolic Age (the history of Christianity, more traditionally the period of the Twelve Apostles, beginning with the Great Commission of the Apostles c. 33, until the death of John the Apostle in Anatolia in c. 100) is described.

Acts places a heavy emphasis on Simon Peter, and Paul (Saul) of Tarsus.

The later chapters discuss Paul's conversion, his ministry, and finally his arrest, imprisonment, and trip to Rome.

The overarching theme of the Acts of the Ap-

_"Saul?"_

Of the Acts of the Apos-

_"Saul, don't you do this_. _Shit_, _son, I've go_tta call the damn hospital again, I swear to God."

The Apostles seems to be the expansion of the Holy Spirit's work to the Genti-

"Damnit, son. You can't just space out on me. Saul! _Saul!_"

The sheriff's face blurred out the lights overhead. Dimly, he realized he had collapsed again.

"There you are. Damnit, son. You have got to stop doing this, else you might end up splitting your head clean open. Yer damn lucky I was there to catch you."

He supposed so. But whatever he had brought to mind just… vanished.

Anterograde amnesia on top of the amnesia he already had would not be a good thing, he decided.

Anterograde amnesia.

1. (Pathology) amnesia caused by brain damage in which the memory loss related to events occurring after the damage. [from Latin _anterior_, previous and –grade]

2. The loss of memory for events immediately following a traum-

"Saul?"

That was Lee.

Yes.

Lee, the man jailed for getting in a bar fight with a stranger who made strong, drunken advances on his wife.

Not anterograde amnesia after all it seemed.

He shifted his arms up to his sides, giving himself enough leverage to prop his torso off the cold tile, before he pushed himself back against the wall. Hendrixson kept one hand cradled behind his head, the other on his shoulder as he helped him move. Lee watched from his cell, eyebrows knits, fingers shifting and tightening around the bars.

"Thank you," A cough tore from his throat, cutting him off. He swallowed loudly. "Thank you for your help, but I think I will be alright, now." He gave Hendrixson a meaningful look. The sheriff sighed, the cracks in his face deepening, the lines on his brow thickening, but he slid his hand away, pushing off his knees and standing back up. He looked at Lee.

"You want out of here early?"

Lee nodded.

"I'll let you out now if you stay with space boy here while I'm out the next two days."

"May I go home during the night, or do I still have to stay here?" Lee asked. The sheriff shifted, the outline of his muscles tensing under his uniform.

"You're going to have to stay here, but your wife might be able to help Saul out a bit if she were to be here. Don't think this is a get out of jail free, card. Consider it probation."

Lee nodded once, standing to lean against the bars beside the door. Hendrixson sighed and unlocked it, letting Lee stroll out and immediately down the hall to the vending machine. The sheriff knelt back down in front of Saul.

"You gonna make it through the rest of the day and tonight? Kay'll probably show up soon, so at least you'll have a trained professional on hand, but…" He sighed and ducked his head to the side. "Don't know about this, son. It don't sit quite right with me if I don't get you checked out by de Gereigh again." Another heavy breath through his nose and the sheriff stood up again.

"I believe I'll manage fine. I have amnesia and a broken leg, I am hardly incapacitated." Saul said evenly. Hendrixson gave him a long look.

"Right. I'm sure you'll be fine." And ruffled his hair, before sauntering to the door. He paused. "I'll be back tonight. The sheriff in the next town over wants me to come over for just a spell. Says there's been some mighty strange disappearances over there. People just flat out vanishing from the middle of their church, or home, or supermarket, leavin' nothing behind but some… strange cult stuff." The sheriff shook his head, some tension fading from his frame. "It's probably just some kids pullin' pranks. Whoever it is, I'll be back before dark. Tell Lee he's in a public place. He'll understand." The sheriff gave him one last… hesitant… smile, before pushing through the door. The police car rumbled outside, and soon, faded into silence.

Lee walked back, holding a Dr. Pepper and Flaming Hot Cheetos.

"Want some?" He asked, holding out the bag of Cheetos.

"I do not feel particularly hungry. Thank you for your consideration, though." He replied. Lee snorted.

"Dude. Lighten up." He dropped the (half eaten) bag into his lap regardless and shuffled down the hall, mumbling about being unable to remember where the phone was, followed by an "aha!', and the sounds of a soft conversation, the details of which he couldn't quite make out. Then quiet, the phone clicking as Lee hung up.

"The sheriff informed me that I am to tell you to be aware that you are in a public place." He murmured as soon as Lee was in earshot. Lee paused, bewilderment quickly turning to embarrassment as his face flushed.

"Dude! It was one time! And it wasn't even public! People fuck in restrooms all the time, that cara de monda, no sé porque necesito reviver la humillación para este incidente, el es el diablo, y un cacorro, y hágame un favor y chúpame la pija. Conchetumare."

"Don't curse, it's rude." Saul said, more on reflex than anything else. Lee paused to glare at him.

"Cállate." He huffed out a sigh, unclenching his fists. "My mother… she is from Belize." The accent still hummed in his words, but faded more and more with each passing second. "She raised my sister and I."

He didn't need to say more. But, Lee didn't seem finished. He struggled with words for a moment.

"I understand I… don't quite fit the _stereotype_." A sneer twisted his features briefly, some fire burning behind his eyes. "My father… my father is responsible."

And Lee's face shut down. An expression Saul _knew_ he recognized. Not Lee's face, all angles and panes, but that expression.

That expression of harsh disregard and defensiveness, and feverish guilt. He knew it. He knew it better than his own heart.

And yet…

It escaped him.

He muttered a curse under his breath, but looked up to meet Lee's gaze.

"I understand. You do not own me any explanation." He remarked.

Lee's lips twisted into something that couldn't be a smile. "I don't. But, crazy guy cursing in a language you don't speak? I've been called the cops on for a lot less."

Oh.

Bitterness.

Oh.

He attempted to return Lee with a proper smile, but he assumed both their expressions fell flat, as Lee's features relaxed and he threw back a draught of his pop, one hand bracing himself against the desk.

"Kay'll be here soon enough. Just… don't die in the meantime, alright?"

Saul nodded vaguely, blinking back stars from his eyes. "I do not have any intention of perishing." He heard Lee laugh somewhere in the background, but exhaustion was clawing up, slugging through his veins. The brick wall itched and dug into his back and skull, but...

Sleep continued sloughing through his skin, dripping down his arms, down his temple, dragging him under, under the waves, below the surface where he couldn't breathe and it was so dark and so cold and so empty and so alone and, and, and…

The dock creaked under his feet.

On the lake, the bobber at the end of the fishing line dipped up and down, moving with the whisper of the wind.

The man beside him spoke.

"Y'know, sometimes I swear that you can hear me saying all this stupid shit."

Saul didn't dare look over.

"God, if Sammy heard me praying to you like this, he'd give me hell. You're dead. And I'm still praying to you. You stupid son of a bitch. You should have… I don't know, talked to me or something. We would have figured something out. And now Sam's losing his shit, and it's your fault, _why didn't you just listen to me, you son of a bitch."_

But the man's voice is fading.

And the waves are getting louder.

And he is drowning.

Drowning, drowning, drowning.

In an endless lake of filthy green algae.

* * *

_Thanks for reading! Please review! And sorry for yet another original character. I have a lot of qualms about the lack of representation of so many people in the show, so I'm throwing in POC and LGBTQA+ (they show up later. C:) and (hopefully!) complex women that don't get murdered. I hope you don't mind! Please, please yell at me if anything I write is a mischaracterization or offensive, I do not mean to be and would love feedback on how I can improve my characters!_


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